Not Fade Away
by Tetrahedrals
Summary: What is a Champion without a City? When Kirkwall fell, Hawke lost more than a home. A Champion no longer, she takes to the seas, trying to build a new life with Isabela and Fenris. But their relationship is haunted by the shadows of his past. And there are secrets hidden in the ashes of the City of Chains.
1. Champion of Ash and Bone

"Why are you alone?"

It is a question she has been expecting, but even still, Hawke pauses a moment before answering.

She respects the Inquisitor. She thinks they might even have been friends, in a different world. A world where the Kirkwall chantry was not a pile of ash and debris. A world untroubled by an ancient nightmare her blood had unchained.

She would like to be honest with her, but Hawke has always had an uncomfortable relationship with the truth. They are like quarrelsome siblings who can only stand each other from a considerable distance (no, wait, she has one of those). Maybe it is more like a half-estranged uncle who always comes round when it's least convenient (come to think of it, she has one of those too).

Either way, she is not ready to open the door to this particular truth. She is still pretending not to be home, still keeping a wary distance.

So she settles for an oversimplification. It is not an outright lie. Fenris would have gotten himself killed trying to protect her, if she had not taken precautions. It has taken her almost fifteen years and cost her more than she can bear to recall, but she has finally learned to be careful with the lives of those she loves.

But that is not the only reason she left him.

Maybe the easiest explanation is simply this:

Some griefs are not lessened by the passing of time.

Some wounds even love cannot heal.


	2. Fire and Brimstone

_"Think of it as a pleasure cruise," Isabela says, smiling. "Haven't you earned a vacation?"_

 _Both of them are looking at her. She turns her head away, looks back at the smoking wreck that was their home for ten years._

I.

It was easier when they lived in separate houses. He'd leave his window open, or she'd sleep with an ear half cocked for a knock, for the scrape of his armor against her stairs, her heart thumping erratically at the sound. Back when they could afford to be careless, when they could still count on wine or trouble to bring them together.

Now they sleep side by side in the cabin of a rocking ship.

And yet he still finds ways to put distance between them.

The first night he came to her bed, back in Hightown so many years ago, before he left her, came back, left her again (or maybe it was she who left that time? The history of their courtship is long and contentious, blotted by wine stains, bloody rows, and imperious ultimatums that neither of them had the resolve to stick to), there was an incident that Hawke later attributes great significance to.

They had been intertwined, if not definitively _in coitus_ , his hands tight in her hair, his lips hot on her neck, when he had gone suddenly and astonishingly intangible. One second her arms were around him and the next, just air.

He rematerialized a second later, his body slamming into hers, his heartbeat pressed into her chest. But Hawke still remembers the shock of it, the frightening sensation of there-and-gone.

And though he came back (and he always does come back) over the years she has come to understand that there are times when though he is physically with her, he is not there.

Back then, when she was young and so hopelessly stupid about everything that it makes her dizzy to think about it now, back then, she'd thought it was something she could fix. That if she only loved him enough, it would be enough to change him. He'd come round eventually, lose his preposterous hatred of magic, his silly prejudices. She was sure of it.

She'd been sure, right up until the night he left her.

Even in the messy aftermath of that night, and all the long years in between, she had nursed her hopes, let them grow in secret.

Not that she'd sat around pining the whole time. Well. There had been a degree of pining. But there were enough willing young men and women in Kirkwall to blunt the edge of her sorrows. And certainly enough demons, abominations, and slavers to bear the brunt of whatever inscrutable feelings Fenris harbored within his lyrium inscribed chest.

But then Danarius had come for him. And the loathsome gloating in his voice, the way his wet eyes lingered hungrily on Fenris' body, had left no question of what had been required of his former bondsman.

 _"Once upon a time you had affection for me. I remember it fondly"_

All her hopes had died that night. (As had Danarius. Rather spectacularly.)

When the magister's corpse had been reduced to a pile of smoldering ashes, the remains of his heart a wet red stain on the sawdust covered floor of the Hanged Man, she'd turned away from the white, shocked faces of her companions. The sight of his blood mingled with her own on the ground made her feel sick. She had seen her sort of magic abused before. But this was the first time she'd felt tainted merely by association.

Fenris had already left, and she was glad, because it spared her having to face him.

 _He's free_ , she had thought, as she struggled to keep from retching. _I'll never see him again, but he is free_.

And of course she'd been heartbroken all over again, though it had been years since he walked out her door, but a part of her had also been _relieved_. For this was after Bethany, after Mother, and though Carver yet lived, the sight of him gone grey-faced and strange in the deep roads was one she would not easily forget. She'd begun to understand the darker aspects of love, the demon's bargain of caring for someone you had no power to protect.

If losing him meant that he lived, meant he was free and safe, drawing breath somewhere out in the world? That was a price she was more than willing to pay.

But then he had come back.

And this time he'd stayed.

She'd been so amazed and grateful. She resolved then and there that whatever Danarius had been, she would be the opposite.

II.

Hawke hit the water with a gasp that was cut off as her momentum carried her further under. Silently she flailed beneath the waves, pushing herself back up. Surfacing, she spat out a mouth full of salt water, and glared up at the figure who stood staring down at her from the ship's prow.

"BLOODY HELL, FENRIS!"

He watched impassively, rope in hand. Next to him, Isabela leaned in low over the railing.

"We've been over this, Hawke," she called down. "He'll toss you the rope once you've promised not to burn down the ship."

Hawke clenched her jaw, furiously treading water.

"Void take you both," she snarled, her teeth chattering.

"I don't hear you promising!" Isabela sang back.

"I swear to the Maker," Hawke shouted, "that I will not burn down the bloody ship!"

Isabela winked at her. "That's better." She turned to Fenris. "If you would be so kind."

He crossed his arms, looking down at Hawke.

"Are you certain this is the best course of action, Admiral?" he said loudly. "Perhaps she would benefit from further counsel with the fish. It may be that they are better suited than we to convince her of the foolishness of this plan."

"You might be on to something there," Isabela purred at him. "But haul her up all the same. We'll never hear the end of it if she catches cold."

With a sigh, Fenris wound one end of the rope around his arm, tossing the other out to Hawke. She snatched it with both hands, and he proceeded to hoist her back up the side of the ship. When she reached the deck he pulled her dripping and shivering up into his arms.

"You will pay for that, Fenris," she hissed at him through chattering teeth. He returned her glare, his arms tightening around her.

"I fail to see how you intend to exact retribution from me, given that your current plan will most assuredly lead to your own capture and execution."

Isabela clutched a hand to her heaving bosom, spinning into an exaggerated swoon. "Steamy," she sighed, fanning herself. "Now take her to your cabin and ravish her immediately."

Both of them turned to glare at her.

She shrugged. "Or, if you prefer, we can continue this tiresome argument." She arched one imperious eyebrow at Hawke. "But no fireworks this time, or so help me you are going right back in." She pointed out to the sea.

Hawke sighed. "No fireworks," she agreed, letting her head fall back against Fenris' shoulder. She allowed herself to be carried back into their cabin, where Fenris deposited her on the bed, and the insufferable pirate wrapped her up in a blanket.

"I should never have given you control of this ship," she groused, as Isabela rubbed the water out of her hair. "You've clearly gone mad with power."

"Nonsense!" Isabela said firmly. " I let you name it, didn't I?"

Indeed, Hawke herself had been responsible for the christening of The Queasy Crow, a duty she had dispatched with great pomp and circumstance. It had required the sacrifice of several bottles of Fenris' best wine, and twice again as many of The Hanged Man's worst whiskey. Varric had even made a particularly rousing speech.

The memory brought back the sting of the latest news, and her face fell.

"She wants to wear the hat," Fenris said, pulling off her soaked boots.

Isabela sniffed. "It doesn't suit her." Hawke gave her an outraged look. "I'm sorry, Sweetness, but it's true. It makes your hair go all flat on top."

Hawke glowered. "Fenris gets to wear the hat," she said sullenly.

"Fenris helps the crew, instead of sitting around moping all day. Which, frankly, was a something of a surprise," she said, turning to flash him a curious look.

"I have worked on a ship before," he said, looking away, "admittedly, under vastly different circumstances."

Isabela shrugged. "You make yourself useful. I appreciate it." Her face darkened, and she turned back to Hawke. "And most importantly, unlike some others I could name, Fenris has never attempted to set the ship on fire."

The early days of their voyage had been plagued by certain highly-combustible complications. The result of these regrettable but ultimately harmless incidents (as Hawke preferred to think of them), was that Isabela had issued standing orders for her to be doused in buckets of cold water at the first sign of smoke, an edict which the crew had taken to enforcing a bit too enthusiastically for Hawke's taste. Still, it had had the desired effect.

At least, until word had arrived of Varric's capture. In the ensuing dispute over appropriate measures of retaliation, things had... escalated.

She sulked. "It was only a few times."

"Any time is too many times, sweet thing." Isabela pulled back, checking her handiwork. "There. We'll see what we can do about getting your clothes dry in the morning. Now, about Varric-"

"We have to rescue him," Hawke demanded angrily, her hair sticking up in wet clumps.

Isabela sighed.

"Alright. Lets get a few things straight," she said. "Firstly, this letter you've had is two weeks old. Add in the time it took to reach Aveline, and you can bet they've had him for a month." She frowned abstractedly. "Probably longer,"

Hawke swore.

"- but we'll be conservative and say that's at least a month he's spent under interrogation. So," she said spreading her hands. "Where are the Seekers? We've docked at three different cities. They've had ample time to find us. But we haven't seen so much as hide nor hair of them. What does that tell you?"

Hawke scowled at her. "He hasn't talked. But-"

"Wrong." Isabela said firmly. She grinned. " _Varric?_ Not talk? They'd have to torture him to get him to stop talking."

Fenris coughed. "Isabela," he said, nodding towards Hawke's suddenly bloodless face. "This is not… helping."

"Oh for- they aren't actually torturing him," Isabela snapped. "Don't you see? He's obviously sold them some utter nonsense. And they've believed it!"

"He could be in danger-" Hawke insisted.

"Maker's bloody balls he is," Isabela retorted. "Seeker Pentaghast may not be keeping him in the style and comfort to which he's grown accustomed, but the worst she can do is restrict his ale privileges." She shook her head. "If this was the Templars, or even the mages, we'd be in real trouble. But this is the Chantry. They follow rules, Hawke."

Hawke's eyes narrowed. "Sister Petrice didn't follow rules."

"And look where that got her," Isabela snorted. "Tits up on the chantry floor with an arrow for a hat. I'm telling you, they can't touch him. Even if every crooked old biddy in the Grand Cathedral had it out for him, he's still got enough pull with the Dwarven Guilds to ensure they have to play nice. That is, unless they fancy a pack of Carta assassins jumping up their backsides." She smirked, clearly savoring that image.

Hawke shook her head. "It's not safe," she insisted stubbornly.

"Varric is sitting pretty in the middle of a regiment of chantry soldiers. He's safer than we are!" Isabela's eyes flashed. "So long as they don't think he's lying to them." She paused, staring at Hawke. "But then, they have no reason to suspect that, do they? Unless you suddenly show up all fire and bloody brimstone at their camp. "

"I was going to employ stealth-"

"You are _rubbish_ at stealth, Hawke." Isabela fixed her with a steady look. "So I am asking you," she continued, all trace of good humor suddenly gone, "not as your friend, but as Varric's. Please. Lie low. Don't blow whatever cover story he's told. Wait for him to contact us."

Both of them stared at her. Hawke stared back, incensed. She opened her mouth to respond.

" _Venhedis_! You are wasting your breath Isabela," Fenris said, disgusted. "Your words are clearly far too sensible for her to comprehend." He turned away from her. "By all means Hawke, leave. Get yourself killed, and Varric with you."

Hawke let her mouth close with a snap.

Despite her best efforts at blocking it out, she was starting to recognize a certain inevitable degree of truth in what they were saying. She bit her lip.

 _How dare they use logic against her at a time like this_ , she thought angrily. This was _Varric_ they were talking about.

She would never forgive herself if anything happened to him. But it was increasingly easy to see how she could end up letting her momentum carry her forward into another disaster. It had happened so many times before.

She snuck a glance up to her right, and winced.

It was hard to asses the wisdom of her plan with Fenris making that face at her.

Then again, 'plan' wasn't exactly the right word, was it?

When it came down to it, she didn't make plans. She reacted. Over and over she'd made a snap decision faced with events that anyone with a lick of sense ought to have seen coming a mile away. And what had been the result?

Ruin and despair. The death of countless innocents.

Suddenly she thought she could detect the faint, cloying scent of burning flesh again. Her heartbeat accelerated, and she felt her mouth flood reflexively with the taste of soot and ash. Quickly she swallowed, forcing it back down.

 _How many cities will burn. How many loved ones must she lose._

She sagged back into the bed.

Kirkwall had made a coward of her, she reflected bitterly, digging her nails deep into her palms.

"What can we do?" she asked, in a voice gone dull and hollow.

Both Fenris and Isabela's faces cleared, the former muttering something relieved sounding in Tevinter.

"We keep sailing," Isabela said steadily. "We put word out at the ports we reach. Write to Aveline, Merril, Carver and -." There was another name she almost said, but she caught herself just in time. "And Bohdan."

"The Chantry can't hunt you forever," she continued. "Not with the Templars and the Mages going at it like a couple of Lowtown tricks scrapping over a john. Sooner or later they'll have to turn their attention to that sorry mess."

Hawke nodded, her eyes dropping down to her clenched hands.

"Then we wait," she said, her mouth twisting over the word, "for word to come."

...

(And word had come. Of something so monstrous that it left all of them stunned)


	3. Spirit of Hope

_Hawke and Fenris sit dazed, leaning against the ships prow, looking up at the hole in the sky. When Isabela drops down beside them, a bottle in each hand, Hawke reaches out for one wordlessly._

 _"Has the whole world gone mad," Fenris asks, to no one in particular._

 _"Looks that way," Isabela says with a toss of her shoulder, wine bottle sloshing perilously._

 _Hawke rubs a hand over her face. "Thank the Maker Varric wasn't there."_

 _"Better to give thanks that you weren't there," Fenris says._

 _Hawke smiles mirthlessly. "Who knows, maybe they'll find a way to blame me for it anyway."_

 _"You're probably right," Isabela snorts, raising her bottle high._

….

I.

Fenris does not like to be touched.

For Hawke, sex has always been as natural an act as breathing, and almost as necessary. She has grown comfortable with her body, it's various needs and quirks.

Sex with Fenris, however, is complicated. His body is dangerous terrain, one she must navigate with care. There are hidden traps and pitfalls that neither of them can see. One false move, a single misplaced step, and he will go vacant beside her, there and not there.

She has learned not to reach for him, to let him come to her in his own time, his own way.

It was not an easy lesson. The Chantry expounds the virtues of patience, but the last time Hawke heard the chant of light was at the Blooming Rose, where it was being sung by a suspiciously under-dressed sister.

It is not in her nature to wait for what she wants, to lie still and submit to another's touch. But she cannot stand to see his eyes go empty and flat, to know that he is in the other place again. There are things she has learned not to ask of him, no matter how good her intentions.

In her nightmares she sees herself stepping into a dead man's boots, taking up a foul, begrimed leash, pulling it taut across his throat. The shadow of his past life looms long over them both. There is nothing she will not do to keep it at bay.

So she allows him to lead her down an unfamiliar path.

Fenris does not like to be touched. But he likes touching her.

He loves her in the all ways he knows best, the ways he has been taught to love. It is a game they play, seeing how much of his kind of love she can bear.

There are days she hovers on the brink of despair, hating herself for always wanting something more than he is comfortable giving, for the endless need that scalds her from within. It has changed her, he has changed her, and there are some days that she hates him, too.

Sometimes when the pent up pressure of his distance becomes too much for her to bear, she allows herself to get drunk enough to start flirting with strangers.

Sometimes, when her skin is burning up from the inside with equal parts longing and loathing, she does more than just flirt.

But it's not the same anymore, the old game of kiss and tell. Maybe she truly has become conditioned, because the nights she spends with him in anticipation of his touch are more electrifying than anything she has ever felt, and the hands of enthusiastic strangers bring her at best only temporary relief.

Loving Fenris is different then she'd imagined. But she keeps the faith between them, in her own way.

…

II.

Hawke, Fenris and Isabela gathered on the quarterdeck, peering out from the railing. For some time now a strange green light had been winking in and out over the water.

"Might it be a ship in distress?" Hawke asked.

Isabela frowned. "Possibly," she allowed. "But it's rather an odd pattern for a signal. There is no rhyme or reason to it that I can make out."

"It is a most unnatural color," Fenris said. "I recommend we give it a wide berth."

"But what if it's another slaver ship," Hawke said, elbowing him. "You like those, remember? And we could certainly stand to refresh our stores of Tevinter red."

"Your dedication to emancipation is truly inspiring," Fenris said, raising an eyebrow at her.

Isabela tapped one finger on the railing. "Whatever it is, at the rate this wind is blowing, we ought to be upon it within the hour."

And so they stood sentry as the green shape drew closer and closer. Soon enough it revealed itself to be no sort of ship at all, but a shimmering phosphorescence that hung over the waves, humming with a curious energy. The three of them stood transfixed as it twisted and writhed above the sea.

"What in the Void do you suppose it is?" Hawke asked, her eyes wide.

"I've no idea," Isabela said, shrugging. She tilted her head and stared it. "But if you squint your eyes just so, it rather resembles a great green-"

"Look there," Fenris said, leaning forward. "Something emerges."

They watched as three ragged figures appeared, skating airily across the top of the water. Ice crystals crackled to life beneath their twisted feet, glittering and spinning in the frothy waves.

"Balls," Isabela said, just as Fenris spat out "Demons."

Hawke frowned. "Despair demons, at that," she said with a scowl. "Bother." Fenris and Isabela turned to look at her.

"If it had only been a Rage demon," she said, sighing as she stepped back from the railing. She pushed up her sleeves. "Imagine the look on it's face when it realized where it was." At their stares, she gestured out to the limitless sea. "Come on, you mean to tell me you aren't a bit curious?"

Both of them ignored her.

Isabela squinted out at the sea. "We need to put some distance between us and that green business," she said, stepping back. "No telling what else might come through."

She pushed her hat up further on her forehead. "Hoy lads!" she called up to the rigging, her voice ringing out like a struck bell. "We've got trouble coming round the starboard! Aft the mainsheet, and loose the topsails! The Queasy Crow sails westward!"

In an easy, fluid movement both her daggers were out, shining brightly beneath the late afternoon sun.

She looked back at Hawke, and pursed her lips.

"Alright, sparkle-fingers. I am temporarily suspending the bucket rule," she said. "Do not make me regret it."

Hawke's face lit up. She turned and looked expectantly at Fenris. He crossed his arms over his chest, his brow furrowing.

"I reserve the right to throw you overboard should you pose a danger to yourself or to the crew."

One of the ragged figures let out an unearthly scream, and they all shivered as the temperature dropped noticeably.

"But for now I will allow that the demons appear to be the greater threat," he amended, unsheathing his sword.

"Do you really think so?" Hawke said, grinning her own feral smile, the tips of her fingers already starting to flicker and swell with wild orange light. 'Well, we'll soon see about that."

…

Afterwards they sat drinking on the deck, watching the tear retreat steadily into the distance. The sun had dipped low on the horizon, and the evening light drenched everything in a cascade of pure gold.

Hawke inched further down onto her back, one hand cupping the green glass bottle, the other covertly flaring with orange and blue. Smiling, she let the tiny flames dance across her finger tips.

Then Isabela started singing, low and lilting in the burnished light of the setting sun. Her voice was husky from years of whiskey and saltwater, but well suited to the cadence of the old sea shanty.

 _*"We are far from sight of the harbour lights,_

 _Of the sea-ports whence we came,_

 _But the old sea calls and the cold wind bites,_

 _And our hearts are turned to flame,_

 _And merry and rich is the goodly gear_

 _We'll win upon the tossing sea,_

 _A silken gown for my dainty dear,_

 _And a gold doubloon for me, love_

 _a gold doubloon for me."_

Fenris ran a spiky-gloved hand through Hawke's hair, and she shivered at the pricking of the cold metal. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, her blood pumping hot from wine and battle. Slowly, tentatively she reached up with one hand and traced the white line that ran down the back of his neck.

He flinched away, stiffening. She saw him catch himself, watched him force his body back into a casual pose.

It was like being doused in cold water again. She pulled her hand back, ignoring his apologetic look, and closed her eyes. She felt his hand move through her hair again, the metal tracing down her cheek to her neck, her collarbone. She bit her lip, tried to make herself still, push down the roaring she felt in her ears. When she thought she might suffocate, she brought the bottle up to her mouth, took a long draught.

 _"There's a sea-way somewhere where all day long_

 _Is the hushed susurrus of the sea,_

 _The mewing of the skuas, and the sailor's song,_

 _And the wind's cry calling me, love_

 _The wind's cry calling me."_

Isabela's voice trailed off. When Hawke opened her eyes, she could see the ocean stretched out around them, empty for miles upon miles. The last white hot sliver of sun slipped down below the dark waves. Fenris' hand moved lower too, and despite her best efforts she felt herself arch into his touch. She forced her eyes up to the open sky, where the Breach pulsed with a sickly green light, like a bruise gone septic.

She frowned.

Then she sat up, almost knocking over her bottle.

"It's the Fade," she said, her eyes widening in awe.

Fenris and Isabela both looked up.

"So we'd gathered from Aveline's letter," Isabela said. Fenris said nothing, but he drew back his hand.

Hawke felt him withdraw, a frisson of irritation twitching under her skin. "But that dodgy green thing, the tear, it must be a smaller version of whatever's happened up there." Her head cocked, and she looked up in wonder.

"Then there is no telling how many more demons have entered our world," Fenris said, his hand clenching around the bottle.

"But don't you see?" Hawke said, growing animated.

"See what?" Isabela said, absently twirling one of her daggers.

"If the demons came out of it," Hawke said slowly, "doesn't it stand to reason that something else might go into it?"

Fenris and Isabela's heads snapped around as if synchronized, their movement punctuated by the thunk of a dagger hitting the deck. Hawke caught them exchanging a meaningful look over her head. She set her jaw obstinately, crossing her arms.

"We are not going into the Fade," Fenris said, sitting straight up.

"I'm not saying we should," Hawke protested, "But if it were possible-"

"Hawke," Isabela said, staring at her, "you do remember what happened last time we went into the Fade?"

Hawke scowled.

"Bloody right I do," she said. She drew her knees up into her chest. "But I reckon you've got your damned boat now. And Danarius is dead. So maybe I can take a walk through the Fade without two of my dearest friends trying to kill me on a demon's say so."

There was a beat of silence next to her, and then Fenris slammed his bottle down on the deck hard enough to make them all flinch. Without a word he rose and walked away.

Isabela turned to her, one eyebrow raised. "Was that well done?" She looked at Fenris' retreating back. "I rather think you've just bought yourself a week of sleeping on the deck."

Hawke shrugged, reaching out with one arm to snatch up his abandoned bottle. "Nothing new there."

Isabela's eyes narrowed.

"What's wrong with you," she said, nodding in the direction Fenris had left.

"What's right with us," Hawke said, tipping the bottle up to her mouth.

"I mean it," the pirate said. "You two like a good spat better than a pig likes shit, but that's the first time I've seen you get nasty."

Hawke shut her eyes, rubbed her hands over her face. "I'm only tired," she said.

Isabela looked at her closely. Her eyes widened. She uncrossed her arms and leaned forward, her face suddenly serious.

"Marion Hawke, I demand to know how many days it's been since you've had a decent fuck."

Hawke studiously ignored her, taking another long swig of her bottle.

Isabela winked."That long?"

"Oh, leave it," Hawke muttered, turning away.

The pirate peered anxiously at her. Then suddenly she sat back with a satisfied expression.

"Ah," she said, nodding. "I see how it is. Contracted the Bedroom Blight, has he? Limbtaker gone Limp? Fog Warrior foundering? Tower turned Tranquil? Hanged man… hanging?"

Hawke choked on her wine. "'Bela," she groaned out.

Isabela brightened. "Oh! Hawke!"

"Bela, don't-"

"Has he gone," she squinted, adopting her best imitation of Varric's rough drawl, "… Soft in Lowtown?"

Hawke put her head in her hands.

"Admit it, you liked that one." Isabella said smugly, nudging her in the ribs.

In truth, Hawke would have liked it very much had it not reminded her that her best friend was currently half a world away, a prisoner in a strange land, subject to horrors unknown. Her shoulders slumped, and she swallowed.

Isabela misinterpreted her movement.

"There, now, don't fret," she said, patting her shoulders. "Why, I've a concoction that will set him stiff as a ship's mast-"

"Have you really?" Hawke said, looking up. She ran a quick hand across her eyes. "You ought to have said earlier. Imagine the fun we could have had with it at Chateau Haine."

Isabela gave her a knowing smile. "Orlesian nobles are sufficiently inclined toward buggery as it is, sweet thing. They've no need of any additional encouragement from us."

Hawke sighed, turning her attention back to the remaining wine. "I suppose you're right."

"Of course I am," Isabela settled down next to her, her face going speculative. "Now, if you're in the market for a proper rogering, I'd recommend the cook." She shuddered. ""Maker knows I don't keep him on for his stew."

Hawke blinked at her. "Not the first mate?"

"What, old Dobbins?" Isabela looked astonished. "Oh Hawke, surely not. The poor man wouldn't know a good lay if it bit him on the arse." She gave Hawke a curious look. "Why? Do you fancy him?"

"No," said Hawke, peering down into the depths of the green glass neck. "Only I rather thought that was how your crew earned promotions."

Isabela pulled back, and stared at her.

"That," she said, "was decidedly uncalled for."

She stood up, and walked over to the ship's railing.

"I'm sorry, 'Bela" Hawke muttered.

Isabela ignored her. She leaned out further, making a great show of contemplating the hole in the sky. "Do you know," she said loudly to no one in particular, and certainly not to Hawke, "I think I should quite enjoy a look inside one of those beastly green things after all?"

Hawke sighed and ran a hand over her bleary eyes.

"Yes," Isabela said, nodding determinedly, "perhaps a nice leisurely stroll through the Fade is what's needed." She raised one hand to her chin, her eyes comically wide. "Wonder if I could get an even bigger boat off a demon."

"Bela-"

"Maybe if I were to trade it for the miserable wretch who has taken the place of my erstwhile friend Hawke? But alas," she sighed, shaking her head. "What demon in it's right mind could possibly wish for such poor company-"

"Oh call it off," Hawke called out to her, scowling. "I said I was sorry, didn't I?" She glared down at the bottle in her hands.

"You'll have to do better than that!"

Hawke stared through narrowed eyes at Isabela's back. She knew she was behaving like an ass, but all the same she felt the heat of an old anger glowing in her chest. She rubbed her side, fingers lingering over old scar tissue.

 _But what's the point_ , she thought suddenly. _You can't undo what was done_. And of course, it hadn't been Bela's fault. Not really.

With a sigh, she pulled herself unsteadily to her feet. Clearing her throat, she tried again.

"I am so sorry, dearest Isabela," she called out, walking towards the pirate. "Words cannot express the full measure of my regret. For you are my sea pearl, my ocean goddess-"

Isabela's back twitched. "Do go on."

Hawke came up behind her, and draped both arms around her neck in a sloppy embrace.

"My salt-water slattern, dearer to me than ten pairs of torn trousers," she murmured into her dark hair.

"That many?" Isabela voice was muffled. "Goodness, I must be moving up in the world."

But she wrapped an arm around Hawke's waist.

They were both silent for a few minutes.

"I know it's been hard, sweet thing," Isabela said finally, looking out over the black waters. "But you mustn't give up hope."

Hawke stayed mute, pressed into the warmth of Isabela's side.

They stood like that for a long time, until the last of the purples and blues had faded from the sky and only the Breach remained, it's eerie glow flickering feather light over the vast expanse of water and stars.


	4. Over Us the Bright Stars

...

I.

It is Kirkwall, finally, that breaks her faith.

Standing on the deck of Isabela's ship, watching the burning wreck of what had once been her city grow smaller and smaller upon horizon, she feels the weight of exile settle over her shoulders like a shroud.

She has been careless with something precious.

Once she would have had the strength to start again, to build herself back up. But this time she can feel it in her bones, there will be no more beginnings for her. Kirkwall is the last place she will call home.

The smoke mingles with the sharp sea wind, stinging her eyes. She wonders if this is this was how her father felt, lessened somehow by each leave-taking. But no, she corrects herself, for he had managed what she had not, to bring what he loved best out with him. An ache blossoms in her abdomen, right below the spot where the Arishok's blade pierced her. She rubs distractedly at the old scar.

At last she turns her face away from the shore, tries to tell herself that she did all she could. And she has not lost everyone. Isabela and Fenris remain at her side.

But when she looks back to her companions, she finds them changed, their faces made strange by the grey light of dawn.

Maybe it is a wisdom born of experience and fatigue. Or perhaps a speck of Chantry ash has caught in her eye, distorting her vision.

For now, when she looks at Fenris, she sees suddenly what should have been clear from the start, what Varric and Aveline have been warning her about all these years. That no matter how hard she tries, how patient she strives to be, Fenris will never get better. Those lost years, the other place, they will always be there. That what they have now, what little good they have strung together between the fights, the drinking, the nights of waiting and wanting, is the best that there will ever be between them.

In Kirkwall, that had been enough. But now…

Now she is all too familiar with the way grief can turn love toxic, fermenting it into guilt and shame and regret. She has seen the way it can eat you up from the inside, leaving you a walking shell.

She thinks of the revenants she has slain, fell guardians of sacred places. Did it happen all at once, she wonders. Or did they hollow out slowly, each day less than what they were before.

Separated from her family, her friends, and the city of her rebirth, Hawke can feel herself dwindling. Soon enough, there may be room for a demon inside her.

The ruins of Kirkwall's chantry would have been an easy place to haunt, she thinks almost wistfully.

….

II.

Hawke lay flat on the upper deck, stretched out below the main mast, looking up at the moon. The black night sky was so wide and vast she felt she could drown in it just as surely as in the dark waters that churned beneath the ship.

 _"The stars are as hungry as minnows, Marian. See, they have nibbled the moon to it's very rind!"_

 _"But it will grow back, Papa!" she'd said, giggling as he nipped at her ear._

 _"Yes," he'd said, smiling down at her. "That is the strength of the moon. To let itself be devoured, but not extinguished."_

But _how_ does it grow back?

She bit her lip, squeezing her eyes shut against the pitiless stars that shone like a thousand tiny teeth in the sky. _How does it restore itself month after month, only to be consumed anew?_

She heard footsteps drawing close, and she opened her eyes. Moving quickly she stuffed a piece of parchment under her chest plate, just as Isabela strode up behind her.

"Odd place for a night's kip, this," Isabela said, dropping down. "You're likely to catch a boot in the face come dawn." When Hawke didn't respond she rocked back onto her heels. "Or perhaps even earlier. We're only a few miles out from the City now."

"'The City'?" Hawke said, still looking at the moon. "Do you mean Llomerryn?"

Isabela smiled, and turned her face to the sea.

"Do you know," she said, leaning back on her elbows, "I've laid anchor in ports all over Thedas. I've seen the stone keeps of Denerim, the glittering palaces of Val Royeax, the white towers of Antiva City, all of them far grander than anything you'll find in Rivain. But somehow, Llomerryn will always be 'the City' to me."

Hawke grinned. "I didn't know you could see all that from the city jails," she said.

"Hush, you," Isabela scolded. She looked back out to the dark waves, and when she spoke again her voice was softened by nostalgia. "I remember how dazzled I was, the first time I saw it. I was such a naive little thing back then. Our village was less than nothing, you understand, a total backwater."

"Oh? Is that the reason you never wear pants?" Hawke said, squinting at her. "I'd always wondered."

Isabela ignored her. "It was years and years before I was able to return. By then I'd managed to get hold of a ship, though I'd no idea how to sail it. My crew turned on me as soon as we landed." She wrapped her arms around her chest, smiling to herself. "But the City took me in. It didn't care about that silly little girl, the person I'd been. It taught me how to become the person I was meant to be." She looked out over the water. "And of course, it's where I fell in love."

Hawke looked up, startled. "I didn't think you'd ever been in love," she said.

"Don't be absurd," Isabela said, her brows knitting. "Everyone falls in love at least once. I just had the good sense to get it over with earlier than most."

"What happened?" Hawke asked, sitting up.

"What usually happens between two people who want different things?" Isabela said, her face closing up. "It's no tragic love story, if that's what you're after."

But Hawke continued to stare at her expectantly, and at last the pirate sighed and continued.

"He wanted me to stay with him," she said. "But I'd already been somebody's wife. I told him I'd come back." She shrugged. "It wasn't enough. When I returned, he was gone. I never saw him again."

Hawke frowned. "That can't be all."

"I'm sorry to disappoint, sweet thing, but I'm afraid it is."

"Well, what was he like?" she prodded.

Isabela smiled. "He was the vainest man I ever knew," she said, her eyes going warm at the memory. "He had a particular weakness for finery. Anything that glittered drove him into raptures. Perhaps that's how he got his name," she said, frowning thoughtfully. "At any rate, he was always dripping with the stuff. Earrings, necklaces, bright scarves, sometimes even gowns if he found one he fancied. We'd go out together, dressed up in his silks, with kohl and powder on our faces. Some people actually mistook him for a woman." She grinned, and shivered. "I never did. Though he was particularly talented, for a man."

"I'm sorry not to have made the acquaintance of this mystery man," Hawke declared. "He sounds positively delightful."

Isabela's smile turned wistful. "He was exceptionally charming," she said, her hands going up to touch the heavy golden collar at her throat. "Sometimes I miss him terribly."

Hawke bit her lip, looking down at her hands. "Do you ever regret not staying?" she asked.

"No," Isabela said. She looked at Hawke. "I loved him, but I understood myself well enough to know that sort of life wouldn't have suited me. I would have grown unhappy, and then resentful, and eventually it would have poisoned what we had." She let her hand slip down from her neck. "What I really wanted was the freedom to come and go as I pleased. That means more to me than any lost love." She looked back to the horizon. "But I always do seem to find my way back to Llomerryn, just the same."

Hawke stared at her palms, tracing the network of old scars with the tip of one finger.

"Was that where you went when you left Kirkwall?" she asked abruptly. " To Llomerryn?"

Isabela blinked, and turned to look at her.

"One of the places, yes," she said after an uneasy pause. "Hawke…"

"I just wondered, that's all," she said, turning away. "I must say, you're in an unusually forthcoming mood tonight."

Isabela eyed her warily. "I am, aren't I?" She stretched her arms out above her head, rolling back her shoulders. "Perhaps I'm hoping that if I take you into my confidences, you'll return the favor and tell me what's in that letter you've had hidden in your armor since we left Rialto."

Hawke started, and then frowned. Reluctantly she reached into her chest plate and drew out the crumpled parchment. For a minute she turned it over in her hands, deliberating. Then she thrust it out toward Isabela without looking at her.

Isabela took it from her carefully, her keen eyes scanning the wrinkled page. Hawke heard her sharp intake of breath. She kept her gaze fixed on the sea.

"Hawke," she heard Isabela say. She looked up to find the pirate staring at her with troubled eyes.

"What's wrong with him," Isabela asked. "He writes as if he's gone mad."

Hawke looked back down. "Carver has begun to hear the Calling."

"What?" she heard the woman gasp. "But surely it's far too soon… Why didn't you say anything earlier?"

"I needed some time to think," she said, reaching out. Isabela handed it to her, and she jammed it back under her leather plate. "I've already sent word to Aveline. Once she gets him away from the other Wardens, she'll take him to the Free Marches." She raised her head. "I'll meet both of them there."

"You're leaving?" Isabela said, her eyes widening. Then she frowned. "Wait, what do you mean, get him away from the Wardens?"

"He doesn't trust them," she said, running her fingers through her hair. "Before it started, he and Alistair were investigating some strange business in Orlais. Then suddenly both of them began hearing the Calling. A week later all the Wardens were summoned to Montsimmard. Alistair went, and Carver stayed behind with the others. Only now he says," she sighed, and rubbed her chest plate. "Well, you read his letter. It sounds like the ravings of a mad man," she admitted. "I don't know if it's real, or just paranoia brought on by the Calling. But he insists that his companions are not themselves. That something has overtaken them."

"Do you believe him?" Isabela asked.

"I believe he's in danger," she said, looking up to meet Isabela's eyes.

Isabela looked at her for several moments. "I suppose it's no use to try to convince you to leave this to someone else," she said at last.

"No use at all," Hawke agreed, with a wan grin.

"But you know that there is no cure for the Calling," Isabela said, watching her closely. "It has been claiming Wardens since the very first Blight."

Hawke shrugged, leaning back. "If it does come to that then at the very least, he won't go alone."

Isabela looked aghast. "What, to the Deep Roads?"

Hawke flashed her a sharp grin. "Just think what a relief it will be. No mages, no templars. No bloody hole of doom staring down from the sky. Just rocks and darkspawn, as far as the eye can see." She waved out a hand in a grand arc. "I expect I'll find it quite refreshing."

"You can't possibly mean that," Isabela said, with mounting horror.

Hawke's smile slipped crooked, and she closed her eyes. "Did you know," she said conversationally, "that as child Carver was terrified of the dark?" She opened her eyes and stared at Isabela. "He used to cry whenever we had to make trips through the woods at night. And we often did, in those days." She looked down at her hands. "Bethany and I would tease him mercilessly about it. It had stopped scaring us, you see. Father taught us to make our own light." She let her fingers ignite, the flames illuminating her face.

"When he was 8, I dared him to spend a whole night out in the woods behind our house. You should have seen his face. He turned right around and marched off into the trees, white as a sheet." She shook her head. "I thought for sure he'd come running back as soon as the sun went down. But he stayed away long enough for Father to start asking questions." She stared intently into the flames. "Mother was furious with me. We searched all night, the four of us, calling his name for hours and hours. Bethany finally found him, curled up against a tree trunk, shivering and crying into his shirt. And do you know what he said?" She smiled. "'I won't come back until Marian says I've won.'" She tightened her hand into a fist. The fire winked out.

"Hawke-"

"I will not send him down there to die in the dark by himself," she said quietly.

Isabela stared at her, lost for words.

"What about Fenris," she said finally. "You can't tell me he's agreed to this."

Hawke's composure wavered. "I… haven't told him yet," she mumbled, leaning forward.

Isabela huffed out a weak laugh. "I imagine if you had we'd be fishing you out of the sea again," she said, covering her face with her hands. "When will you tell him?"

"Oh, sometime quite soon I imagine," Hawke said, suddenly very busy with the laces of her boots.

She could feel Isabela's eyes on her.

"How soon," the pirate asked.

Hawke mumbled something unintelligible into her boots.

Isabela sighed. "Hawke, she said, her voice low and serious,"I won't try to keep you from your family. And I won't insist that you let me accompany you, if thats what you really want. I know that I've no right to tell you what to do after all the times I've run off without so much as a goodbye. But doesn't Fenris deserve some sort of explanation, at least?"

Hawke glanced up guiltily. "I was planning to leave a note-"

"A note?" Isabela winced. "What do you suppose he'll do after he discovers you've left?" She frowned. "Did you even bother to think that far?"

"I had hoped that you might look after him for me," Hawke said, sheepishly rubbing her neck.

"You mean assuming he doesn't gut me with that glowy hand trick the minute he finds out I was daft enough to let you go off on your own," Isabela retorted.

"You've seen how he is out here," Hawke said, nodding to the ship. "This life suits him." She grimaced. "At any rate, it's certainly better than living on the run with a heretic apostate."

Isabela shot her a sidelong glance. "Surely that's for him to decide?"

Hawke threw down her laces in frustration. "You say that like there's even a choice. But that's not true, is it? Because so long as I'm around to look after, he'll never have to make any decisions for himself. He'll never live his own life. He'll just carry right along playing bodyguard to the crazy mage. Just like he did with Danarius."

"I'd be willing to wager a considerable sum that's not how he sees it," Isabela said dryly.

"Maybe not," Hawke conceded. "But eventually he'll see that it was the right thing to do."

"Will he, do you suppose?" Isabela asked, her voice deceptively mild. "Personally I think it's rather more likely that he'll fly off into a towering rage and immediately set out after you."

Hawke scowled. "Why are you so intent on making this difficult?" She scuffed her boots against the deck. "You know you'd do the exact same thing. Maker, you _have_ done the same thing!"

"What, run off to the Deep Roads to avoid talking to the man I loved?" Isabela said, looking askance at her. "I think not, sweet thing."

"Don't play obtuse," Hawke said, irritated. "It's just like you and your mystery man. You knew you'd only wind up making each other miserable. So you left him."

"It is nothing at all like that," Isabela said, her eyes flashing. "I told him the truth about who I was, and what I wanted. The rest was up to him to decide for himself." She flushed. "And yes, maybe I haven't been such a shining example of honesty or constancy since then. But what was the point, when I'd already lost the only man I ever cared for?" She glared at Hawke accusingly. "You don't really want me for a role model, anyhow. You're just looking for an excuse to run away."

Hawke glared back her. "I'm being hunted by half the powers that govern the continent! What else I am supposed to do but run?"

"Now who's playing obtuse," Isabela said scornfully. She shook her head, and turned aside. "Slip off in the night if you must. Like I said, I won't stop you. But don't try to soften it for yourself by pretending it's for his own good."

Hawke flinched.

"I suppose you've already hatched some sort of escape plan," the pirate continued in a sour tone.

"I have a contact waiting in Estwatch," Hawke admitted, looking down.

"Who," Isabela demanded. Hawke gave her a skeptical look, but she glared her down. "I won't have you getting your throat slit by some crooked bastard who's decided the bounty on your head's worth more that whatever coin you're paying for safe passage," she said. "Now who have you found to play ferryman?"

"…Athenril," Hawke mumbled, fiddling with the strap of her pauldron.

" _Athenril_?" Isabela repeated, her eyebrows soaring. "You'd trust that two-bit cheese smuggler over me? Now I truly am offended."

"It's less conspicuous this way," Hawke said, squirming slightly under the weight of Isabela's displeasure. "She already has routes that go to Ostwick. And you're not exactly unknown there."

Isabela sniffed haughtily, pushing herself to her feet.

"Bela, wait," Hawke said, running a hand through her hair. She looked up to catch the pirate's eye. "You're right. I'll talk to him, before I go."

Isabela slowed. "Good," she said, her scowl softening. She leaned against the mast, and for a minute her face clouded. "Hawke. I know it's useless to attempt to dissuade you from hurling yourself into harm's way, but do try to remember that there are some of us out there who still worry about you."

"I promise not to do anything rash," Hawke said solemnly.

Isabela sighed.

"Well then," she said, straightening up. "I suggest you get on with planning whatever it is you intend to say to poor Fenris. We sail to Estwatch in two days time." She dusted off her legs, and then paused, frowning. "If it's at all possible, could you try to do it at a safe distance from the ship? He does tend to get rather fist-y when he's angry."

"I'll try," Hawke said.

Isabela looked down at her. "You know sweet thing, I'm fairly certain he's going to end up following you no matter what you tell him."

Hawke gave her a bitter smile. "I wouldn't bet on that, if I were you," she said, turning her face back up to the moon.


	5. Under Us the Drowned

...

I.

After years spent at sea, Hawke has begun to find her own ways of putting space between them.

She gets into the habit of taking the very last watch, standing guard upon the bridge until the sky turns rosy with morning light. Some nights she crawls up into the rigging and finds a perch among the ropes.

Fenris makes no remark on her frequent absences, but on occasion she catches him watching her when he thinks she's not looking.

For all her precautions and good intentions, outside of their shared bed he has fallen back into a familiar role, the faithful bodyguard. Or perhaps it has always been this way. " _I am yours_ ," he'd told her time and time again during the onslaught of those final years in Kirkwall. What she had once taken for a profession of love now rings eerily close to an oath of servitude. Sometimes she wonders if he even knows the difference.

There will always be the nights that he is lost. She will never spontaneously embrace him without feeling him flinch. It is not in her power to fix or to protect him. It never was.

Nor does she harbor any illusions about what his life with her will be. Running, hiding, and fighting. Eventually one of them will fall. She has seen it happen enough times to be certain.

And maybe leaving is cowardice, or maybe it's just common sense come seven years too late. Hawke can't be sure, having long lacked the capacity for either quality.

The truth is that she is tired of watching loved ones fall. Of feeling the heat of anger and self loathing burn under her skin at night. Of seeing her own wan face reflected in the concerned gaze of her companions.

When Carver's letter reaches her, she needs no further excuse.

….

II.

The shallow waters of the port glittered with an oily sheen, and the night air was faintly gray from the greasy smoke of too many makeshift cooking fires burning at once. Hawke coughed, and spat over the side of the boat. She wiped a hand across her mouth, trying to be rid of the taste of Estwatch.

Widely known as Llomerryn's smaller, less reputable cousin, the smuggler's port of Estwatch was a haven for every sort of swindler and cutthroat. Over the years it had grown into the de facto headquarters of the Felicisima Armada, and under this dubious aegis vice, squalor and violence had become so commonplace that it was difficult to determine which of the three ran most rampant. Predictably, Isabela loved the dirty little island. But for Hawke it held too many memories of the year she'd spent earning her way into Kirkwall. It was as if the intervening time had been wiped clean away, taking her mother and Carver with it.

Now she looked out over the side of the ship, squinting into the fading light of the evening. On the far side of the harbor, she thought she could just make out the familiar shape of Athenril's scow.

The sound of approaching footsteps distracted her, and she glanced down. Her eyes narrowed. A ragged pack of children had gathered at the edge of the gangplank.

Her mouth set into a hard scowl, and she sank down with her back against the railing. Whistling to herself, she summoned a flickering handful of flames. The footsteps faltered, and she heard one pair quickly running the other way.

But when she looked up there were five determined little faces staring down at her.

One boy stepped forward, his arms across his chest and his chin tilted up defiantly.

"Are you the Champion?" he demanded.

Hawke leaned back nonchalantly, tossing the fireball back and forth between her hands.

"Maybe," she said. "Who wants to know?"

She caught the ball of fire in the palm of one hand and set it spinning with a flick of her wrist. She heard one of the children gasp.

But the boy was not done.

"So, is it true then?" he said.

"What," she asked, narrowing her eyes and grinning savagely at them. "That mages prefer their children served toasted?"

The others shrank back, but the boy just scowled.

"No," he said, stomping his foot. "About dueling the Arishok."

Hawke's eyes closed. The fire died, and she let her hands drop. "Yes," she said. "It's true."

"Tell us the story!" she heard him say.

She opened one eye and blinked at him. "Why should I?"

The boy obviously hadn't considered that. She saw one of the others pull on his sleeve, whisper something in his ear.

Hesitantly he reached into his pockets, pulling out a fistful of copper coins. He held them out to her. Hawke scoffed loudly, and pushed his hand back. "Not interested," she said, turning away.

This prompted another heated bout of whispering among the children. Out of the corner of her eye Hawke saw one of them go running back down the gangplank. After a few minutes, she returned. The others parted to let her through.

Rooting around in a dirty knapsack, the shabby child produced one large brown-glass bottle, which she deposited with a heavy thunk on the deck in front of Hawke

"That's better," Hawke said, snatching it up. She pulled the cork out of the bottle with a pop, and leaned in to take a deep whiff of it's contents. Immediately she rocked back, coughing violently. "Much better," she croaked when she had caught her breath, and she raised the bottle to her mouth.

When she looked up again, the five children had seated themselves in a semi circle around her, their faces bright and eager. The youngest couldn't have been more than eight years old. Hawke stared at her, and for a second her eyes clouded. She took another swallow from the bottle, reluctantly setting it down. Then she stretched out her hands, cracking each one of her knuckles, and began to speak.

"In the year of 9:31 Dragon," she said, looking somewhere above their heads, "the Arishok came to Kirkwall looking for a thief. By 9:34, he was tired of looking."

…

"He staggered and fell down upon the steps of the main hall, dropping both his sword and his fearsome axe, his terrible black eyes going dull and dim-"

The children sat spellbound, their mouths open, and Hawke smiled despite herself.

"-and as he lay dying, with his life's last breath the great Qunari warrior gasped out, "One day, we shall return." She bowed her head.

"I never heard him say that," said a deep voice from behind her.

Hawke started, her smile dropping away. "Run along, children," she said curtly, sitting up. "Story time's over."

They scuttled away, casting wide eyed glances back as the dark armored elf strode out of the shadows.

Hawke looked up at him through narrowed eyes.

"I thought you were helping Isabela deliver the cargo," she said, taking another swig.

"She does not require my sword to deal with that swaggering pack of thieves," he said, leaning against the railing. He frowned as he looked out over the squalid dock. "And despite what attractions it may hold for our Admiral, I will admit that Estwatch has not endeared itself overmuch to me." At Hawke's snort, he raised a eyebrow at her. "Though you seem to have succeeded in making a favorable impression on some of the younger residents."

"I was cautioning them against the evils of strong drink," Hawke said primly. She took another swallow and grimaced. "This spirit in particular may be the strongest and most evil I have ever encountered."

"It cannot possibly be worse than the swill Isabela brews in the cargo hold," he said, eyeing her bottle with skepticism.

"Care to wager on that?" she said, grinning as she held it up to him. He took it and raised it to his lips. He got down one gulp before quickly lowering it, coughing and swearing in Tevene.

"I was mistaken," he rasped, thrusting the bottle back down to her. "Those children were clearly trying to poison you." She took it back, a smug smile on her face.

He spat over the side of the ship, and then turned back to lean against the railing, his arms crossed. He looked down at her curiously.

"Why did you not tell them how it truly happened?" he asked.

Hawke's smile went tight and sharp, and she looked away. She summoned another fireball, cupping it between her hands.

"What, and undo all of Varric's hard work?" She pressed her hands together, causing the fire to jump and crackle. "That book of his almost succeeds at making me seem halfway respectable."

Fenris shot her an amused glance. "I would not go quite that far."

Hawke shrugged. "I didn't give him much to work with. Still," she said, hunching down, "it's better this way. Wouldn't want to plant any funny ideas about blood magic in their impressionable young minds." With a vicious jerk she hurled the flames high over the railing of the ship.

"I suppose it is not exactly appropriate material for children," Fenris conceded, frowning as he followed the trajectory of the fireball until it quenched itself with a sputtering hiss in the water. "Even ones that live in a cesspool such as this."

Hawke let out a choked laugh, and Fenris glanced down at her in surprise. He dropped down to sit next to her, his arm inches from touching hers.

"Hawke," he said in a lower voice. "I have missed you these past nights." He leaned in, and she twitched as she felt his lips ghost up over the curve of her neck, the unexpected contact sending a wave of heat rushing through her body.

"However," he whispered into her ear, one arm slipping around her waist, "I should warn you that I have not forgotten my responsibilities to the ship and it's crew."

Hawke's eyes went wide. Cursing, she lunged away. But she was not quick enough.

"Maker's balls, Fenris, give it a rest-" she yelped as she struggled to escape from his arms.

"Invoke the Maker's name all you like, Mage. My duty is clear."

Hawke tried to wriggle out of his grip, but he held her fast. Leaning back as far as she could she lifted one hand up in warning, fingers burning bright through the haze of polluted air.

"Fenris, I swear to Andraste, if you dump me in that muck I will _actually_ set the ship on fire-"

He laughed, and pulled her into his lap.

"Honestly, it will be hard enough as it is to get the stink of this island out of my hair," she muttered into his shoulder, scowling as she shifted into a position that kept her clear of his armor's black spikes.

"If it is a bath you desire, I would be happy to oblige you," he said with mock seriousness. She jabbed him in the stomach with her elbow. He caught it neatly in one gloved hand and pulled her towards him, kissing the sensitive spot below her ear.

As always, his touch was enough to wipe away any thought but the closeness of him, the smell of his skin. She closed her eyes and stopped thinking, stopped breathing.

He pulled back and looked at her, his face suddenly serious. "You've been avoiding me since we left Rialto," he said quietly.

Her eyes snapped open. "Have I?" she said, more than a little dazed. She adopted a look of surprise while she waited for her head to clear. "Are you quite certain?"

"It is difficult not to notice such things on a ship."

She nodded, swallowing. "I suppose it would be." She snuck a glance up at him, tried to calm her beating heart. His gloved hand ran down the side of her cheek, the black metal cold against her skin, and she shivered. She knew he was aware of the effect he had on her. Resentment and desire simmered under her skin, and she closed her eyes again, trying to marshall her wits.

It was a tactical error. Too late she heard the clink as he undid the clasp of his glove. She started as she felt his bare thumb gently trace over the curve of her mouth. Seemingly of their own volition, her lips parted and she licked his calloused finger pad. He leaned in slowly and kissed her, his face pressed against hers, his lips warm and soft on her mouth, the bare fingers of his left hand stroking the nape of her neck.

It would have been so easy to forget all her plans, to simply yield to the moment and accept whatever he was willing to give her. Within the circle of his arms the fears that haunted her seemed flimsy, her doubts mere fabrications. And a part of her wanted so badly to believe that they could still build something bright and new between them, a future worth all of the pain and sorrow left in their wake. But even through her haze of longing she could feel his gloved right hand locked like a shackle around her wrist, the metal spikes digging into her flesh.

It was up to her to set them both free.

"Fenris," she made herself say, "there is something we need to discuss."

He pulled back reluctantly. "You have my attention," he said, his expression wry.

She withdrew, carefully extricating herself from the tangle of his arms until they were again sitting side by side.

"I've had word from Carver," she said, looking down. "Something has gone wrong with the Wardens. He is … not well." She stumbled over the words. "Aveline has taken him to a safe house in the Free Marches," she continued. "I have made arrangements to meet them there."

Fenris' eyes narrowed "And if it's a trap-"

"I don't care," she said, closing her eyes. "I must try to help him, in any way I can."

She felt him take her hand.

"I understand," he said, and she squeezed her eyes shut tighter. _Why couldn't he fight her, make it easier to do what came next-_ "When would you have us leave?"

The longer she delayed the harder it would be.

She opened her eyes, and looked at him. "I will go alone."

His hand clenched down on hers.

"You will not."

They stared at each other for a full minute.

"I fear the wretched drink of this island has gone to your head," Fenris said finally, his face stiff. "You cannot possibly believe that I will allow you to make such a journey on your own."

"My head is perfectly clear," Hawke said. "And I will go alone whether you allow it or not."

"Do not be absurd," he spat. "What you suggest would be dangerous even were I to accompany you, but alone…" He shook his head.

"Try to understand, Fenris," Hawke said, pulling her hand away. "This is what I have to do."

"And am I to be informed what it is I have done that you should feel compelled to throw yourself upon our enemies' swords simply to escape my company?" Fenris said though clenched teeth.

Hawke winced. "You haven't done anything," she said, her voice softening. "It's just, well," she rubbed the back of her neck. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm in very high demand these days." She turned her face up wearily to the sky. "The Chantry wants me for questioning, the Templars want me six feet under, and the Rebel Mages want me for a mascot." She paused for a moment, considering. "Most likely the sort that gets stuffed, mounted, and wheeled out with a bow hung 'round it's neck at speeches and rallies," she concluded, pulling a face. "And in addition to that lot, I've managed to piss off the Carta, the Crows, and the Coterie, or at least what's left of them." She tapped her fingers against the bottle. "I rather suspect that their secret headquarters must have been located somewhere awfully close to the Kirkwall Chantry, poor blighters."

"You have always been something of a divisive figure," Fenris muttered, rubbing the spot between his eyes.

Hawke shook her head. "Not anymore," she said grimly. "Now I'm helping people all over Thedas find common ground. The trouble is that what's brought them together is the notion that my head would make a lovely ornament stuck on the business end of a pike." She slumped down, her voice going low. "I've heard my own name spat as a curse in half the ports we've docked in."

"Hawke-"

"You, on the other hand," she said, straightening up, "are a different case altogether. Your self-styled master is dead. We spent ten years slaughtering anyone else stupid enough to come looking for you. I dare say you are free to settle anywhere you like." She frowned. "I know for a fact that you've received an invitation to go and play royal guardsman for His Most Pious Highness, the Prince of Starkhaven."

"So I have," Fenris acknowledged, his brows drawing together. "I did not give the matter much thought. If you wished to visit Sebastian, I would certainly not object-"

Hawke shook her head. "I'm afraid Starkhaven has been giving mages rather too warm a welcome for my taste," she said with a humorless grin. "You do recall the circumstances that brought our dear friend Grace to Kirkwall?" Her smile sharpened. "Though truthfully, I can't find it in my heart to blame the villagers of Starkhaven in that particular case. Maker knows their intentions were good." She turned back to him "But nevertheless-"

"Hawke, listen to me," Fenris said, his voice rising.

"-you finally have a chance to lead the life you have always sought, as a free man-"

"Hawke!" Fenris shouted, reaching over to cover her mouth with his bare hand. He glared at her. "Has it not occurred to you that I am in fact living the life I have always sought? That I am here by my own choice?"

Hawke stared at him angrily. Her words came out muffled. He removed his hand.

"You can't be serious," she said, rubbing her jaw. She looked up at him. "Your choice?" she said, shaking her head in disbelief. "To fight for the mages? To leave Kirkwall in ashes? To sail away on Isabela's bloody pleasure cruise?" She gritted her teeth. "Exactly which part of that did you choose, Fenris?"

"The part that is doing her best to talk me into losing my temper," he said, gazing down at her.

She flushed, and looked away. They were both silent for several minutes.

"I'm sorry," she said at last, in a quieter voice. "It's just that I don't seem to have the foggiest idea of what I'm doing anymore. Out there," she waved out to the sea, "or even here, with you."

Fenris went still.

"For years and years I told myself lies," she continued, swallowing. "That I could fix you, heal you, keep you safe. That if I loved you enough, tried hard enough, things would get better." She looked down at her hands. "But they only got worse, didn't they?"

"Hawke," Fenris said slowly, "I know that I am not… an easy man to care for-"

"You're wrong," Hawke said fiercely, raising her head to stare at him. "You are extremely easy to care for." She reached out to touch his face. He didn't flinch, but she saw his pupils dilate as her fingers moved over the white markings. "It's all the rest of it that's difficult," she said.

Silently, he took her hand.

"I used to believe that I was helping you," she said. "Now I look back and think, what have I done but drag you into a bigger mess than the one you first came to me in?" Her voice dropped lower. "And of course, there are times when I fear that you simply replaced one mage with another-"

"Do not compare yourself to Danarius," Fenris said, his eyes going dangerously narrow. "You are _nothing_ like him."

"I did not want to be," she said, drawing back. She fidgeted with the bottle. "After he died, I thought I could change, make myself into a different sort of person. Well." She shook her head. "Too little too late, I suppose. And now I find myself thinking, what's the point? Who am I fooling, really?" She pushed the bottle away, her face twisted up into a grimace. "A pack of blighted children, come to hear tales of a Champion who never existed." She stopped, looking up at him. "And you."

Fenris's brows drew up. "You think you are deceiving me?"

"I must be," she said, with the ghost of a smile. "You're still here, aren't you?"

" _Venhedis_ ," Fenris swore, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her. "Enough of this! I am here because I care for you, and because I would not see you come to harm! What must I do to make you believe me?"

There was a beat of silence, then he withdrew his hands and sighed, rubbing his brow. He reached for the bottle, took a long drink, and set it down squarely between them.

"You and I, we are fond of quarreling, are we not?" he said, his voice tired.

"Fenris-"

"And yet somehow I find that the prospect of spending the rest of the night attempting to shout sense into you one harsh word at a time lacks its usual appeal." He turned, and gave her a tight smile. "But I can see that you will not be deterred. So allow me to make one thing clear." His voice went hard, and he caught up her hand in his fist. "Whatever is said between us tonight, however you attempt to drive me away, this will only end in one of two ways. You will either leave with me at your side, or at your back." He stared defiantly into her eyes. "I meant what I said at the Gallows, Hawke. Nothing is going to keep me from you."

All the rest of her arguments died on her lips, and she swallowed.

There was one thing left to say. But seven years of silence had hardened around the words, ossifying them into something sharp and brittle. She had not realized how difficult it would be, to bring them up from the depths of her heart, break them open, speak them out loud.

For a second she wondered if it was too late to run.

Stalling for time, she picked up the bottle again, and drank deeply. This time when she set it down it took a moment for the world to settle around her, and the night took on a warm, unreal quality. She looked up at the sky. Behind the haze of pollution the crescent moon was faintly visible, a slim sickle of bone picked clean and white. She shivered.

"Fenris," she said. "Would you like to hear a story?"

"Not particularly," he said, staring off into the night. "But you will do what you wish, as always." He reached out for his discarded glove.

Hawke pressed her hands to her face to stop them from shaking, forced herself to repeat the words. They came out rushed and slurred. "In the year of 9:31 Dragon, The Arishok came to Kirkwall looking for a thief. By 9:34, he was tired -"

"I believe I have heard this story before," Fenris interrupted, scowling as he pulled his glove back on.

She shook her head.

"Not like this," she said.


	6. The Tale of the Champion

_Let the blade pass through the flesh,_

 _Let my blood touch the ground,_

 _Let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice._

-Andraste 7:12

…

I.

In the year of 9:31 Dragon, The Arishok came to Kirkwall looking for a thief. By 9:34, he was tired of looking. But the Qunari weren't the only ones growing impatient with the state of affairs in the City of Chains. For it seemed that a strange madness had overtaken the citizens of Kirkwall, clouding their reason and inflaming their ire. Hardly a day went by without some new challenge to the tenuous balance of power. The Knight Commander was tightening her hold on the Circle. The mages, in turn, were growing more and more desperate to escape the Gallows. Scavengers, sensing the discord within, became bolder in their encroachments and the streets grew thick with slavers and thieves. Kirkwall stood poised on the cusp of a momentous change.

With wild horned men and abominations lurking outside the city walls, and dangerous political traps set within, perhaps it was only to be expected that Hawke, who never noticed anything until it was right in front of her own nose, should fail to recognize the signs of a more subtle change. She'd had her own personal crises to deal with, after all. No sooner had Fenris left her than her mother went missing, and for awhile all the noise and colors of the world receded into the background, leaving her oblivious to everything but her own grief.

But someone else had noticed.

"D'you think that's a good idea?" Merrill said, her brow furrowing as she watched Hawke lift the flagon up to her mouth.

"Best idea I've had all blighted day," Hawke muttered.

"Really? Is it different for humans, then?" Merrill asked, her green eyes wide and curious.

"What, ale?" Hawke squinted at her, and ran the back of her hand over her mouth. "Your lot seem to fancy it just as much as ours do. Maybe more, if Fenris is any indication."

"Oh, I didn't mean the ale-," Merrill said, but by then Varric and Isabela had joined them and Hawke had stopped listening.

It had taken Hawke another week to put two and two together for herself. Indeed, were it not for a chance encounter on the Wounded Coast she might have carried on in ignorance for a great deal longer.

It happened that some noble had promised to pay them a pretty penny if they could find an old family heirloom she'd lost at the Coast. It was the sort of job Hawke might once have refused as too trivial to bother with, but these days she'd take on anything that kept her away from the house.

As usual, they were ambushed almost immediately. Surprise attacks had become something of a regular occurrence on trips to the Coast. For awhile it had been mostly bandits, then slavers, and then abominations. Late nights at the Hanged Man Hawke and her friends had taken to speculating upon which group would move in next, settling atop the bones of their predecessors. And so when the first Tal Vashoth charged at her, she'd thought ' _oh bollocks'_ , not out of any fear for her life, but rather because she now owed Isabela three sovereigns.

 _Why couldn't it have been giant spiders,_ she thought with a scowl as she pulled out her staff. _Maker knows they're everywhere else_.

Experience had taught her that the horned brutes were exasperatingly resistant to fire, and so she'd sunk the bladed end deep into the heel of her palm, had pulled, felt her mana surge in response.

And then suddenly stopped dead, her blood dripping uselessly onto the stones that littered the rocky shore.

For there was far too much of it, too fast, and from a spot beneath her ribcage she'd felt a sudden twitch, a sharp pinch like the pricking of needles under her heart.

She'd stood frozen there like a complete idiot, mouth wide as a toad catching flies, and she might have caught a few arrows if Varric hadn't shoved her down in time. Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately) by this point her friends had grown quite accustomed to fending off would-be ambushers, and so they made short work of the Vashoth while Hawke crouched down in the lee of a rock, her bleeding hand pressed into her stomach. Varric and Isabela gave her odd looks afterwards (while Fenris, she'd noted, was still avoiding looking at her altogether), but she'd mumbled some excuse about not feeling well, and had practically sprinted back to Kirkwall, her heart in her mouth and her palms sweating.

And the truth was that she hadn't known what she was more afraid of; that there might be something alive inside her, or that she had already destroyed it, the tiny spark snuffed out before it even began.

She'd meant to go to Darktown, to the clinic, but when her feet stopped she was in the Alienage, her hand on Merrill's door.

The elf blinked in the sunlight, her green eyes puzzled. "Hullo Hawke," she said, ducking slightly as she peered out from her half cracked door. "Have I forgotten something?"

Hawke shuffled her feet, and muttered something unintelligible.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Merrill asked, shading her eyes with one hand.

"Am I pregnant?" Hawke blurted out.

Merrill blinked at her again, and flushed. "Creators, didn't you know? I thought you'd realized ages ago-"

"Oh," Hawke said softly, leaning forward against the doorframe, her hands going to her face. " _Shit._ " Her legs wobbled beneath her, and she sank down.

"Hawke, are you alright?"

"I don't know," she said, closing her eyes. "We were ambushed, I used blood magic, and I think-" She stopped, unable to keep herself from shaking. Merrill's eyes widened.

"Come inside," she said, opening the door all the way.

Not a lick of healing magic between the two of them but quick as a wink Merrill had her wrapped up in blankets on the bed, a hot mug of tea with herbs she'd gathered on the mountains pressed into Hawke's trembling hands while the elf knelt in front of her, her eyes closed, the edges of her fingers pushed into Hawke's lower abdomen.

At last she looked up, her face solemn. "The heartbeat is very weak. If you don't act soon, I think it will slip away." She tilted her head, her face going suddenly unsure. "Unless… that's what you want?"

"I don't-" Hawke said, her voice breaking. She tried again. "I don't know what …"

Merrill took her hand. When she spoke her voice was low and halting.

"It happens that way sometimes, in the clan," she said. "Among Keepers especially. Magic is so often passed down, you see. And it can be very hard to send the little ones away, or worse, to leave them behind." She shivered, her eyes closing. "Poor da'lens," she whispered, "born at the wrong time. It's not right that they should suffer. But too many mages are a danger to the clan." She looked back up, her eyes dimmed with sorrow. "Sometimes it's easier to end a life before it truly begins," she said. "I promise you, they feel no pain."

"No," Hawke said, surprising herself. She closed her eyes, took a breath, and opened them. "That's not what I want."

Merrill nodded. "Then we need to act quickly." She pulled a dagger from her belt. "What was taken must be restored."

And before Hawke had time to do more than blink the elf had slashed a deep cut through her own slender forearm.

Hawke gaped at her. "What are you doing-"

"Shh," Merrill said. "Be still. Listen to the blood." She brought Hawke's injured hand to her arm, forcing Hawke's fingers under the lip of the wound.

Hawke reluctantly closed her eyes. She could feel the elf's pulse beating out in the rich red liquid at her finger tips. Power surged into her like an electric current, and her eyes shot open. Merrill's were shut tight, her vallaslin standing out starkly against her ashen face.

"Merrill-"

"Don't stop," the elf ordered, her hand clenched like a vise around Hawke's.

Hawke winced at her grip, but she let the power come, pulling it into her body. She felt her blood grow warm in her veins, felt the tiny knot under her ribs loosen and swell. The cut in her palm began to close up.

"I didn't know blood magic could do that," she said, amazed.

"This magic is much older than you humans know," Merrill said, her voice coming out weak and strained. "I've heard your chantry say it comes from demons, but they are wrong." She drew in a sharp breath and winced. "It's true power lies in sacrifice," she said. "You must offer it something of your own- _ah!_ " She gasped out, and Hawke felt her pulse stutter under her fingers. "I can feel her, Hawke!" she whispered, "Her little heart-" Her eyes rolled back into her head, and her hand went limp around Hawke's wrist.

Hawke swore as Merrill sank down onto the ground, unconscious. Quickly she pulled her up onto the bed. She cast her eyes around the room for something to use as a tourniquet. In desperation, she ripped green scarf from Merrill's neck and knotted it tightly around her bleeding forearm, applying pressure to the wound. She could feel Merrill's pulse beating sluggishly.

"Come on, Merrill," she whispered. "Please wake up."

After what felt like ages, Merrill started, her lashes fluttering. She looked up with eyes gone dreamy and huge.

"Oh Hawke," she breathed. "Only a wee little wisp of a girl, but isn't she beautiful?"

After this narrowly avoided catastrophe, Hawke deduced that it might be wise to lay low. And so, in the misguided hope that two months of reckless behavior could be undone by a belated commitment to extreme caution, she shut herself up in her home and resolved to live as a recluse until the child was brought to term.

Five days later she had to admit that this was perhaps a mite unrealistic.

For one thing, she'd forgotten how vacant the house felt since Mother's death. It had been ages since she'd spent any real time there. Being home meant resigning herself to empty hallways, quiet dinners, meant walking past a door she could not bring herself to open.

The other thing was that she had not reckoned on how dreadfully boring it would be.

She did try to keep herself occupied. But all her attempts at making her own fun were thwarted by a pair of stubbornly uncooperative dwarves.

"Forgive me, Messere, but I cannot," Bohdan insisted.

"Oh come on Bohdan," she wheedled. "Just one more round?"

"You've already taken the whole of my savings," Bohdan said, an edge of desperation creeping into his voice. "What have I left to wager?"

"I'll lend it back to you!" Hawke said brightly. Bohdan stared at her with reproachful eyes, and she sighed. She pushed the pile back to him. "Maker's breath, don't give me that face. I was only joking anyhow." She scowled as she cast her gaze around the room, looking for some new source of amusement. Her eyes lit on Sandal.

"What about you Sandal? Care to try your luck?"

"Messere," Bohdan said, aghast. "You wouldn't!"

"Enchantment!" Sandal said happily.

Luckily for all involved parties, her self imposed solitude lasted little more than a week. Eventually Varric had turned up at her door, curious and concerned at her absence. And of course it just so happened that there was a job he'd been tipped off to, something going down in Lowtown, and would she mind helping him out? She hemmed and hawed but by then she was half mad from boredom and itching for the chance to set something on fire (Bohdan had gotten quite stern with her about experimenting in the house), and it hadn't taken much persuasion to get her back into her leather plate and out the door.

Fights were more challenging without blood magic, that was certain. She felt herself pushed close to her limits again for the first time in years, to the point where she actually borrowed a book from Anders. Something about arcane magicks, which she had never bothered with before (shields and barriers were so terribly dull) but now she supposed she ought to at least attempt to learn. And the book had proved useful enough once she'd shook all the extra pamphlets and scribblings out of it. The shields, while admittedly handy, were about as tedious as she'd expected. But to her surprise there had been something else in it, something very interesting indeed that she had taken to playing around with in her spare time.

When she had any spare time. She'd never noticed before how many people seemed to need her help. It was becoming a bit alarming. And she knew that it was dangerous and that she had to be very careful, but the letters were piling up, and she told herself, well really, Marian, how long can you ignore the Viscount?

She still hadn't told anyone besides Merrill. She wanted to tell Carver, but he wasn't speaking to her. Mother was gone. And Gamlen wasn't the sort of uncle who inspired confidences.

She might have told Isabela, but the pirate disappeared before she got the chance. At first she was inclined to worry. The city was riddled with tunnels and passageways that seemed to open up on their own to lure in the unwary. But Varric assured her that Rivaini had simply returned to the sea with whatever item it was she'd been looking for. And so, though it grieved her, Hawke let it go.

There was someone she should have told right from the start. But he'd left her, and the stubborn part of her decided that meant he'd forfeited the right to know. They kept up a charade of friendship, but anything more than a few pleasantries and the conversation slipped into something uncomfortable and fraught. Hawke often thought about what she should say, how best to broach the subject. But try as she might she couldn't bring herself to form the right words. Instead it was the wrong ones that always came so easily to her.

He had made it clear he didn't want her, for all that he still wore her favor. She tried to convince herself she didn't owe him anything. But that didn't keep her from tormenting herself with the idea that he might still come back one day, that he'd realize the mistake he'd made, come to accept that magic could be used for good. Perhaps after the baby was born, she thought wistfully. She often fantasized about how it would be to introduce them, pictured his eyes going wide and soft as he looked at his daughter. Sometimes she imagined telling him the name she'd chosen. _'Leandra', Fenris. For the grandmother she'll never get to meet_. Truly, she had always meant to tell him someday.

And perhaps that day would have come. She'll never know. For the Qunari came first.

 _My city is on fire_ , she thought, looking out over the docks. The air stank of ash and panic, and the streets were full of shouting, and for one confused second she'd thought it was Lothering again. But she saw the glitter of flames reflected in the sea, the slick sheen of blood on marble. It was Kirkwall, Kirkwall was on fire. And this time, she told herself, she didn't have to run.

So she, Fenris, Varric and Aveline had fought their way across the embattled city, all the way to the Viscount's Keep. Only to find that it wasn't, not anymore. Poor old Marlowe Dumar. He'd been a tired, harried man who ruled only by the grace of the Templars, but he'd done what he could to keep the tensions of the city in check. His once bright blue eyes stared sightlessly up at her from where his head had come to a stop on the floor. There would be no more letters to put off, no more bad news to deliver.

And above them, on the steps, the Arishok waited.

"Tell me Hawke," he'd said, his face implacable. "You know I cannot withdraw. How would you resolve this conflict?"

She opened her mouth to speak.

But Fenris spoke first.

(It wasn't his fault, she told herself afterward. He hadn't known, had he? She'd never told him.)

"You have granted this woman basalit-an. By this admission, she now has the right to challenge you," he said, stepping up to stand beside her.

Stunned into silence, Hawke turned to stare at him.

"If you truly knew the Qun, Elf, you would not suggest I battle a female," the Arishok said.

"She is no female."

Maybe he meant it as a token of respect, but she flinched all the same.

"Fenris," she'd whispered, desperately trying to catch his eye. "I can't-"

The Arishok turned his black eyes on her. "What say you Hawke? Do you agree to a duel?"

For a moment, Hawke thought about walking away. Of turning her back on Kirkwall, her friends, the people. Of running as fast as her feet could take her to the docks, stealing a boat, setting sail and never looking back. The way her father had trained them to drop everything and run.

If it had just been the two of them there, she might have done it.

But Varric was looking at her, and Aveline, and even Fenris. Fenris, with his eyes fierce and proud, staring at her like she was some divine being to whom he would like to swear fealty, a look she would have given anything to see in any circumstances but these. And the cold hand of dread had closed around her heart, for suddenly she'd understood two things; that he believed in her utterly and completely, and that to walk away now would crush that belief, possibly forever. She tore her gaze away, looking wildly around the room, at the people huddled in the alcoves of the great Hall, all of them staring at her with hope naked on their faces. And reflected back in their eyes she saw not a woman, but a shining construct of fire and blood, a champion.

She'd accepted the challenge.

She'd known from the start it was going to be difficult. Her chief strength lay in fire magicks, but the Qunari didn't burn. And she didn't dare use blood, not with the little heart beating steadily beneath her own.

But she'd lived through Lothering, through the Deep Roads, through the Fade. She had faced down demons, dragons, and darkspawn, slain the living and the dead in equal numbers. She was Marian Hawke, and she was nothing if not a survivor. She would survive this, too.

So she cast what protections she could around herself, felt them hum to life in a shimmering net over her skin. And raising her staff, she stepped forward to face the Arishok.

She had no real hope of blocking his attacks. The force with which he swung his axe would crush her even if he only managed an indirect hit. So she led him in a terrible dance, lobbing fire at his eyes to distract him while she slashed and jabbed with the sharp blade of her staff. She knew that to fight him without magic was to pit her weakness against his strength, but her options were limited. Simply sustaining the shield was sapping a significant portion of her mana. To cast a proper spell she'd need time to stop and concentrate.

She dodged left as his blade swung past her. Bringing her hand to her head she focused, sending out a flash of magic in a radius around her. She saw him stagger back, and took advantage of the resulting opening to throw a solid punch, her fist burning bright and hot. She got him in the eye, felt her knuckles grate against the brow bone. It should have forced him back, but with a roar he surged forward, and she had to leap backwards to avoid his axe. It caught her staff instead.

Despite knowing she shouldn't look, her eyes followed it as it clattered across the floor. Quickly she turned her gaze back, only to see him come charging at her with both weapons raised. In a burst of adrenaline she twisted right, and channeled every scrap of mana she had into a barrier as his sword came down.

It held, but the blow knocked the air from her body, and she ducked down, rolling out of his path as she gasped for breath. Raising her hands she summoned a hail of fire that rained down explosions, obscuring the air between them. She knew better than to hope it would cause damage, but it might provide a distraction. She desperately needed to get some distance, her barrier was fading fast, and her shield would be no use against a direct hit.

She danced backwards through the flames, keeping his dark bulk in front of her, trying to judge where her staff had fallen. For one crucial second she took her eyes off him. When she turned back, it was too late.

The blade of his sword hit her in the ribcage, sliding though the gap between the bones, neatly severing sinew and tissue, the slippery-soft membrane of her lungs, and exited out through her back.

She knew instantly that it was not the sort of wound one could recover from.

With a grunt he raised his sword arm. She slid forward on the blade, her body convulsing at the agony of metal scraping against bone, her legs writhing uselessly above the ground. She let out a wet gasp, felt her own blood fill her throat. Her head lolled backwards, and as the flames died down she saw the shocked looks of the people around her, her friends gone white faced. _I've lost,_ she'd realized, with surprise, and had laughed, the action turning into a choked cough that left her lips flecked with red. The Arishok lowered the blade, yanked it back, and she slid off into a heap, one hand over the hole, trying fruitlessly to hold it in, even as she felt the rush of wetness pooling down her back. The tiny life inside her kicked out in distress. She twitched, curling in protectively.

 _I'm sorry, little heart_ , she thought, as her vision blurred. _I'm afraid I've got us into real trouble this time_. She closed her eyes, strained to draw breath. The blood was an unstoppable tide rising in her throat. It would drown them both. She clenched a red fist against her wound.

 _So this is what it feels like to die._

But the blood, set free at last, sang to her of other possibilities. It wove a loose tapestry of power through the network of blue veins under her skin. _See_ , it said, seeping through her fingers, burning a rich crimson in her dimming vision. _See what can be done._ Her eyes widened, and she drew in one ragged breath.

For there was a way to save them all, her white-faced friends, the cowering nobles, the guards, the thieves, the drunks, the whores, the templars, the mages, the chantry sisters, the sick, the wretched, the despised. All of Kirkwall could be saved, and herself with it.

All it would cost was one tiny life.

She wanted to laugh again, to scream and scream until blood rose up into her throat and choked out the sound. But there wasn't time. The Arishok was watching her, waiting to see if she would get back up.

So she made herself go still, let her consciousness drift down below the wound, past her ovaries, their dark follicles staring like empty sockets, until she could feel the little light pulsing warm and bright inside her. She cupped her hands around it in a spectral caress. She whispered a silent apology, and a brief prayer to the Maker.

 _Send her somewhere better next time_ , she thought, her eyes brimming over. _Send her somewhere safe_.

And she pulled.

For a second the light flickered uncertainly. It dimmed, slowly, until it was the barest gleam beneath her finger tips.

Then it went out.

Power flooded through her body in burning waves. It dripped from her skin, warm, viscous and unmistakably alive. She could taste it on her tongue, salt-rich and metallic. She brought a hand to her lips, licked the tip of one finger, drew back to admire it. With exquisite care, she traced the old battle line across her face. And suddenly her eyes cleared, and her body felt light again, and strong, and so very full of rage that she thought she might set the entire world aflame-

Everything snapped back into focus. She lifted her head. The crowd murmured, and she saw the Arishok nod, bringing up his sword. She rose in one lithe movement, a corona of white flames flickering around her head, and the blood still trickling down from her nose and mouth. She nodded back at him.

And so they began the dance anew.

This time her feet were light as air, her movements effortless as they paced around the hall. Within and without her, the blood sang, exultant. There was so much of it now, more than enough for what she had to do. She traced a glyph on her arm, not bothering to look at him as she sidestepped his charges, and curled her hand into a fist. At her command, gaping wounds opened up in his arms, legs, and torso. She saw him stiffen as her blood sang corruption into his. Smiling, she siphoned his life away from him in bits and pieces, until his steps came clumsy and slow.

She watched him stagger, leaning heavily on one knee, and knew: it could happen like this, a prolonged bloodletting, no sorrow but the slow resignation of impending death. An honorable end for an honorable man.

 _I promise you, they feel no pain_.

It was not enough.

He would feel pain. He would be made to suffer like the beasts he despised. She would rip his honor from him, let him watch her crush it beneath her heel.

She took the bits of life she had stolen and began to weave. She wove in fire, and she wove in blood. She twisted the three magicks into the shape of an old spell she'd found in the back of a borrowed book. And when she was finished she raised her arms high, let the crown of flames spread from her temples down to her arms, her hands. She closed her eyes.

It was a very simple spell, really. Almost exactly like casting a shield. It was meant to be defensive, to trap your enemies and hold them in place. But if one were to modify it, to twist it ever so slightly, then it became something quite different. In truth Hawke had an only a vague idea of what might be possible, for until now she had not met anyone she hated enough to test it upon.

When she opened her eyes she saw the Arishok stood frozen, caught in a shining pillar of light. She laughed in triumph, reaching eagerly through the Veil to catch him in her wet red hands. And when she had each arm in her grasp she wrenched them apart and pulled again, filled with a strength born of rage and grief, until she could see the skin glowing taught and translucent from strain, the muscles beneath twitching like frenzied snakes, feel the sinews start to stretch and pop from tension-

The Arishok was strong, but he was only flesh and bone. She was fire and blood.

He raised his great horned head and bellowed like an ox brought to slaughter. With a sickening ripping noise the flesh split, and he dropped, a puppet cut from invisible strings. She released her grip, let his limbs fall over the remains of his ruined torso. Walking forward with sure steps she picked up her fallen staff. She moved closer until she stood staring down at him.

He was a trembling mass of red, his body broken beyond all hope of repair. In the dulling black of his eyes she caught a glimpse of her own reflection. Abruptly, her rage dissipated. The flames surrounding her winked out, leaving her hollow and cold. Gritting her teeth, she raised her staff high, brought the bladed end down hard into his throat with a wet crunch. He went still.

She sagged down slowly, not hearing the crowds that chanted her name, not feeling the arms that propped her up. "Somebody get Anders," she heard a rough voice snap out next to her, and she shook her head. "No," she said, her voice hoarse. Her throat constricted when she tried to speak again. "Please," she rasped, her hands shaking uncontrollably, "just take me home. I need to go _home_ -" She lost her breath, and everything went black.

When she woke up every part of her ached, and worse, there was an emptiness, a terrible silence in the spot below her heart and she moaned, curling inward. They told her afterwards that while she'd been unconscious she'd called out her mother's name. But of course, they hadn't understood.

…

II.

"How," Fenris said, only it took a moment for Hawke to realize that he was speaking, for something had gone terribly wrong with his voice.

"How could you keep this from me," he said, staring at her with eyes gone wide and haunted. "You walked into that fight knowing-" he broke off. He brought a shaking fist up to his mouth, bit down, and with a fascinated, frozen horror she saw his eyes were wet.

 _He would not forgive her for this_ , she realized with terror and relief.

She made herself shrug, forced herself to look away. "It is done, Fenris."

"You should have _told_ me!" he shouted, slamming his fist against the railing.

She bowed her head, and bit into her lip until she could taste blood in her mouth. "Yes," she said. "I should have."

When he spoke again his voice was as dry as dead leaves. "If you had truly loved her, you could not have used her in such a way." She winced. His voice grew accusatory and ugly, with a timber of hate she had only ever heard him direct at slavers. "You did not _want_ her-"

"No," she said. She was prepared to accept every criticism except this. This one point she would not yield. "Say what you like, but not that. She was wanted." She struggled to keep the ache out of her voice. "Unplanned, unexpected maybe, but not unwanted."

"Then why," he asked with such sorrow that it made her breath catch in her throat.

"I wanted to live," she whispered hopelessly, looking up at him.

She had never feared him, though she'd been told often enough that he was dangerous, wild, full of hatred and violence. But suddenly she was more afraid than she had ever been in her life of what she would see when she looked into his face.

He was looking back at her, and immediately she found she had to close her eyes, because otherwise the image would burn away every other memory that she had of him, all the good that had ever happened between them lost forever, and all she would ever see was his face now, staring down at her in revulsion and horror.

"Go where you like," she heard him say. "I will not follow you."

When she opened her eyes, he was gone.


End file.
